The Window Year
by wandertogondor
Summary: Their story was all wrong. They met in a cemetery at the dead of night. He smelt like lighter fluid and nearly impaled her with his shovel. And she was wearing orange surgical scrubs with a handcuff hanging off one wrist.
1. Chapter 1

**Surely, I'm insane. Most definitely.**

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**SUMMARY:** Their story was all wrong. They met in a cemetery at the dead of night. He smelt like lighter fluid and nearly impaled her with his shovel. And she was wearing orange surgical scrubs with a handcuff hanging off one wrist.

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It was one of those window years for Dean Winchester. He'd get up, take a shower, check out from whatever scurvy motel he was living out of, and he'd get into the Impala and drive until he was cross-eyed.

Sam was bunkered in at Stanford, and John was doing something somewhere - out of sight and temporarily out of mind. That's why going solo had its perks. Dean could eat what he wanted, sleep whenever and with whomever he wanted, drink like his daddy taught him for as long as he wanted...it was an endless possibility.

If he wanted a banana daiquiri he'd damn well have it. If he wanted to lay sprawled out across a comfortable mattress, he'd do it! No regrets.

So, today wasn't any different from the last hundred before. Dean sat in a chair, case file opened up in his lap, and his foot propped up on the table. He delved into the newspaper clippings and coroner's report at a leisurely pace, feeling free to take a sip of beer if the thought appealed to him. That night, he resolved, he'd do a few back stretches and, while arming himself with a shovel, lighter fluid, salt, and matches, he'd dig up a grave.

Love, Virginia was small and wooded and there wouldn't be anyone remotely nearby to watch him desecrate a grave. It was an easy salt and burn. A smile played across Dean's face...an easy job deserved him a piece of pie at least.

So he went out and got a piece of pie. It was blueberry with a flaky golden crust. He asked the bakery worker for a generous dollop of whipped cream on top and grinned even wider when he was handed the plate. The light cream nearly covered the entire slice of pie. _Perfect._

Life was good and tasted amazing.

Every forkful was like a little slice of heaven and Dean tried to hide his smiles by flipping his collar up to shield his face. He wanted to laugh at himself. Hell, he just wanted to laugh at himself sitting there all alone in that bakery eating a piece of pie and making serious happy faces.

Hours later he was still sitting at the table, all finished with another three slices, just waiting for the sun to go down. Dean was looking forward to be able to head up into the Blue Ridge Mountains in his baby; driving her into the high altitude freely because he knew she'd be able to make it. He wanted to go that little cemetery nestled right between a stream and a white church, standing with its faded boards.

And so he did.

He took out a shovel and a flashlight before walking down into the grassy step where scattered graves were strewn across the cleared area, pine trees towering on the other side of the stream. He found the grave, dug it up, broke open the casket, and did his magic.

Salt.

Lighter fluid.

Zippo.

He was slicked with sweat, relief, pride. Sitting on the grass, watching the flames lick up into the sweeping span of sky. It was a chilly night and Dean didn't want to go back to the Impala for his leather jacket. Instead he scooted closer to the grave, holding the palms of his hands out in hopes of catching some of the warmth.

"Oh, my god." A voice broke through the darkness.

Dean sprang up to his feet and held his shovel up as a weapon. His eyes danced down the tree line until he saw the glint of handcuffs attached to the wrist of a woman's hand as she approached the fire.

"If we were in Georgia, you'd be arrested for camping out in a cemetery." She said, sticking her arms just over the fire. "Not to mention the repercussions of grave desecration."

The hunter furrowed his eyebrows, and looked her up and down. She was wearing a two-piece orange surgical scrubs and had a serial number printed across her back. It bewildered him how calmly she stood over the fire, handcuffs still hanging down from one wrist, and warmed her hand.

She was a psychopath.

"You okay, lady?" He lowered his shovel and warily approached. "Hey."

Her gaze shifted from the fire to land on him. "2,500 bucks and a year in the crapper."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I should know," she went on to say with a maniacal cackle. "You start this fire? Damn, you're the lucky one."

"Yeah, that's me...lucky." Dean rolled his eyes and shifted his weight to one leg. He was standing like an idiot in a cemetery talking to a runaway felon, listening into the night for the sound of dogs barking.

She walked toward him, hand outstretched. "I'm Camille Hemingway. Like the writer."

"Dean Winchester. Like the rifle."

Shaking her hand slowly, Dean forced a smile to match hers. He was caught off guard. He was expecting questions.

_What are you doing here? Why are you burning a body? How're you okay with this? Are you twisted in the head? Sicko._

Camille didn't say any of those things. She just glanced back at the fire with adoring eyes. It creeped Dean out. A hunter who took on monsters head on was actually freaked out by a 130 pound woman who gave him another crazy eyed grin. She held up the wrist with the handcuff attached.

"You got a bobby pin or something?"

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**Good, bad, ugly? Let me know how you liked it :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean blinked once. Then twice.

He was soaking in the strange occurrence. It was supposed to be any easy job. In and out. Hell, he ate half a pie over it. But now he was driving with Camille sitting in the seat beside him. He didn't know where he was driving or why he was driving for that matter.

Throughout the ride down the mountain, Camille had dismissed Dean's sidelong glances and forced herself to keep up the appearances. Yes, she escaped a low security prison. And yes, she was grateful that she had someone crazy enough to take her in.

He didn't ask small talk questions. Thank God.

_What did you do? How did you escape? Why were you warming your hands over a burning corpse? Psycho._

Pulling his leather jacket closer around her shoulder, she squirmed in anxiety, hoping her orange garb wouldn't be seen. She had an out-of-body feeling, like she was one step behind the whole world and didn't belong in her skin. Like she was supposed to be someone else at that moment. Someone who hadn't thrown her life away.

"Lemme ask you a question."

_Here it comes_, Dean thought to himself. "Sure."

"What made you want to help me? I mean, even for you this is pretty illegal."

Dean turned the volume dial to the radio down just enough so the music still hummed through the speakers. There was a thoughtful little smile on his face - one which he couldn't totally finish instead made up for by tapping on the steering wheel nervously. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, you were burning a corpse. I don't know if you categorize that as illegal but to each his own."

He shrugged. "And?"

"And nothing," was her distant reply, looking at the window and not at his face. "It's just nice and stupid of you to help."

Almost jeeringly, Dean peered over in her direction for a moment before focusing on the narrow roads. "I think the words you're looking for is 'thank you', sweetheart."

Camille's face closed instantaneously at his choice words. It wasn't in her nature to dole out gratitudes freely. "Pull over."

Doing as was instructed, Dean cringed when she just about kicked open the door and threw his father's leather jacket in a balled up heap in the front seat. His face pinched up when she slammed the door closed with finality and hiked down the road. Unsure of what the hell just happened, Dean slowed the Impala down so the wheels cruised at her pace.

"You're going to get caught ten times easily in those clothes. You're like a walking talking neon sign." He was talking to her through the open window. "Get back in the car and we'll discuss this without getting killed."

"I'll walk around naked if I have to," Camille barked back an eerie laugh without looking anywhere but forward.

"Trust me, I'm all for that, but I got a fast car and you got a ticket to anywhere."

She stopped abruptly and the Impala jolted to a stop with her. It took Camille a moment to wrestle and weed through her thoughts. Was getting back in the car to safety worth her pride? Uhm, _no_. She couldn't turn away a golden opportunity that he was readily offering to get a free ride out. Having come to a decision, Camille leaned down to look in through the window.

Dean was grinning. Smirking.

"I can't settle my debts. I don't have anything to give you in return. I don't even have a penny in my name enough to afford to buy myself new clothes."

That wolfish grin curled across his face. It was nowhere near evil. "I guess you won't be wearing clothes then."

"I like being prepared."

"Don't sweat it." He dismissed with a wave of his hands, facial expressions softening. "I got you covered."

Camille's lips pursed and twisted to each side, trying to suppress the elated smile. "Thank you."

Holding up his jacket, Dean motioned with his head for her to back in the car. "You wanna change right here, right now? I got some clothes in the back and I promise I won't peek."

"Shut up," she yanked open the door and slid back in beside him, zipping the leather jacket up to her chin and just waiting for him to get going before glancing over, straight faced. "And don't sweetheart me, big boy."

Feeling the hostility in the air at that last comment, Dean readily agreed and took his foot off the brake pedal. Just when he thought she could be as cute as a button in her prison scrubs, she scared the shit out of him. Not the cutesy-fartsy kind of intimidated either. She was a stick of dynamite and he was the boy with the box of matches.

"Nice car."

"Thanks," Dean ran his eyes over the dash with pride twinkling in his eyes. "it was a gift from my dad."

"Oh, yeah?"

She was genuinely interested and caught the glint in his expressions. Dean's eyes weren't as bright anymore than they were a second ago.

"The man never let up."

"He was hard on you?" She was answered with a nod. "I know the type. I suppose he never bought you a celebratory drink on your 21st birthday since drinking was already commonplace, right?"

There was no response. No head nod indicating yes or no. Nothing.

"Sorry." Camille bit the inside of her lip, cursing herself but smiling shyly as a back up. "A year in jail and my people skills are still rusty."

"What else did you do in jail?" Dean initialled the conversation and swore to steer clear of the topic of his father. He hid behind his devil-may-care attitude and continued, "Get any ink?"

"No, but I think I might have traded my liver in for some smokes."

Dean threw his head back and didn't contain a laugh.

"I'm serious," she rebutted flatly.

And there was that empty, endless void of unventured territory again. Camille was breaking her senses trying to run a list of potential topic starters through her head, desperately attempting to alleviate the sense of awkwardness that could have been in her imagination. Wouldn't be the first time either. Jail life was hard. Social life in midst of the jail life was even harder. There was the fist fights and the lesbian sex and...Camille did a double take. Yup, just lots of fist fights and sex.

"You heading to Ironville?" She asked when Dean had just met up with Route 60.

"Kentucky? Yeah, I guess I can go through there."

Camille sat up straight in distress.

"Don't go out of your way for my sake. Just dump me in the first town out of Virginia."

"You gotta stay on the down low for the next couple of months. And lucky for you, I'm good at covering my tracks and leaving no evidence behind. So, it's no big deal."

"Don't you got someplace to be, buddy?"

"Not really. It'd be nice to have someone come along. I freelance, you know? The job gets dull."

Hey, it wasn't a total lie. There was an quart of truth in that gallon.

"Are you," Dean recoiled inwardly at the way she started. Not a good sign. "Are you asking me to stay with you?"

Dean shrugged and tripped over his words. "No - I'm just - You would be better off with me - You know, just for a little while. No pressure."

If Camille saw the little smile that had split her face in two while listening to him stumble through the sentence she would've kicked herself right then and there and huddled into a corner out of embarrassment. But she didn't notice the smile on her face but did take note of the way Dean's eyes shifted toward her for a second, trying to shake off his own sheepishness. Her eyes did narrow.

"I'm a convict. I like to listen to the same songs over and over again and I have zero social skills. And I'm screwed in the head three ways from Sunday. Tell me you want that in a ten foot proximity for the next few months."

Dean shrugged and replied honestly. "I wouldn't mind."

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Like you said, I need all the help I can get. And I thank my lucky underwear that I spotted your kick-ass bonfire."

"Square with me here, Camille," Dean put his hand up like he was ready to say something revolutionary and he was, but instead he settled with, "you want a motel room to sleep in? The sun's coming up in a few hours and I could go out and pick some clothes up for you while you slept."

That wasn't what he wanted to ask. Well, yes, yes, it was what he wanted to ask but Dean wanted to ease into that question later. What he really was getting ready to ask was why she had gone to prison in the first place. Why a pretty girl like her had thrown her life away when she couldn't have been twenty-two with her entire life standing ready in front of her. Just like him.

"Anyone ever tell you how awesome you are?" Camille's voice broke through Dean's thoughts.

He smiled his wolfish smile again. "You're the first."

"If it's any consolation." She squirmed in the seat and twiddled her thumbs in her lap. "There's a museum in Ironville that's housed in an old, former tavern that's apparently haunted."

Dean decided to humor her for what it was worth. "Oh, yeah? Do tell?"

"Buddy of mine from jail used to go on and on about how she's heard footsteps in the front hall, and a woman singing in the second-floor ballroom."

_Buddy of hers from jail? How many times has this broad been a jailbird?_ "And - And your friend said she heard these things? Personally?"

It was like a million things were dumped into Dean's brain all at once. He started to formulate plans and routes that'd take them to Ironville the fastest. He calculated pee stops and food stops and emergency puking stops. It would be a perfect trip after he was done with it. He could get there in five hours. He would get there in five hours.

In the meantime, Camille nodded slowly, that crazy-ass grin pulling at the hairpin corners of her lips. The grin that already made Dean want to shoot his own foot before she did it for him. "Why, you like Caspers or something?"

"Something like that."

"That's...cool." A nod in approval was timed between the words. "It's only fitting for a psychopath like you."

Dean snorted, half-inclined to chuckle. "A psychopath like me? You were the one warming your hands over a burning corpse."

"_You_ were the one burning the corpse."

"Fine, fine, fine," putting his hands up in surrender, Dean continued quickly. "We're both crazy. Everybody wins."

There was another lapse of silence that was only penetrated by the sound of Camille trying to cover up a yawn but failing. She slapped a hand over her mouth and nearly choked on the deep intake of air. Nearly doubled over, Camille waved off the sleepy sensation and sat up straighter. The sun was just starting to illuminate over the field of trees and she wondered just how long she had gone without sleep since blowing the joint.

"Get some sleep."

Waving him off, Camille fought off another yawn. "I'm fine. I can stay awake. I'll be fine."

"I heard that one before. Here." He twisted one arm to reach behind her seat, bringing out a striped afghan. "Use this to cover your pants if you're worried."

"Cute."

"It's not mine. A girl left it in here."

He was answered with an incredulous look.

"She was a friend."

Lies. She was an exotic dancer.

Taking the soft blanket from his hands and spreading it over her knees, Camille looked appreciative as she huddled against the door, leaning the side of her head against the window. "I owe you one," she sleepily muttered before settling into a well-needed sleep.

Dean reached over to smooth the afghan over the side of her leg so the orange would be totally covered and laughed under his breath. "Or twelve, you crazy bitch."


	3. Chapter 3

The jail scene started to lose its appeal around the fifth or sixth visit. By that time, Camille had gotten used to sprawling across cold cots with lumpy mattresses and flat pillows. She'd even gotten used to the nasty food, and the bright orange scrubs, and the seedy security guards.

Gotten used to it all by the time she was twenty.

And that was only the first four years.

It had all started on her sixteenth birthday. Everything. All the shit and the agony and the self-resentment started on her Sweet Sixteen. Camille had woken up on her birthday expecting to embrace the saccharine arms of youth. Instead, Time gave her the thumbprint of age. Right there. Right on her forearm.

Four letters. One name.

She had scratched at it until her skin was ribboned into ugly red welts, seared up and down where her fingernails had made impact.

The very first night Camille spent in prison she stared at her arm for most of the night, wondering how such a little thing could have ruined her chances of living happy and free. Camille didn't know how or why but it was surely because of that name. The person behind that name was the genesis of all her misery.

"I miss you." She disdainfully said one night as an inmate at Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women. Camille was looking out the barred window, and out into the perfect Virginian night. "I miss you, Dean. I've never even met you and I miss you."

*****SUPERNATURAL*****

Camille couldn't remember walking from the Impala to the motel room when she woke up. She couldn't remember kicking off her shoes and easing into a clean, soft, weightless bed. Half-inclined to fold her arms under her head as a makeshift pillow, as she was so used to doing over the years, Camille was pleasantly surprised that motel pillows were like a fluff of cloud.

At that moment, it wouldn't have matter if her prosecutor had carried her in! Camille burrowed under the covers of the microfiber blankets and sprawled across the width of the bed. The muscles in her arms and legs pleaded in pain every time she shifted but Camille was more than willing to stay in one position for the majority of the morning.

It wasn't until she heard the door lock rattle open, followed by footsteps and the crinkle of shopping bags, that she believed her situation was real.

"You awake?" Dean asked while setting the bags on the desktop, glancing at her bed.

Camille cautiously peeked over the edge of the bed sheets. "Yes."

Ignoring her eccentricities, Dean started laying out the contents of the shopping bag on the desk. "I got you some hair dye. It's like..." He squinted. "light brown."

"Strawberry blonde."

He swiveled his head. "Come again."

Camille sat up in her bed, holding the bed sheets in between her folded legs. "The dye is strawberry blonde, not light brown."

"Whatever you say." Dean shrugged and turned back after a moment to pull out a few shirts and a pair of jeans. He neatly laid it all out on the edge of her bed before straightening his back to square his shoulders with hers. "So, how're you feeling?"

The words caught in her throat as soon as her lips parted. "I'm...okay."

"Have I mentioned that you're not a very good liar?"

Camille lifted one shoulder abjectly. "Never had to get good."

Nodding his head in acceptance, Dean continued, "I did do some research on you while you were passed out. You were arrested nine times for arson."

That seemed to get Camille's attention. Her eyebrows shot up and she poised one finger to reply, as if she was proving him wrong with a vital piece of information. "One of those times was for public urination." Her eyes got wide and slightly crazed. "It would have helped if I hadn't pissed on a police officer."

Dean blinked, mouth hanging agape. "You're insane."

"All the best people are," was her reply, face nearly split in two by a Cheshire grin. It was wide and toothy and didn't appear to be disappearing anytime soon. She wet her lips. "I'm a sociopath and a pyromaniac. What are you?"

"Normal."

"You are such a good liar, Dean Winchester, it's sad how obvious it is."

"Huh." Dean retorted more to himself, crossing his arms, and gestured to the stack of clothes, dismissing the conversation. "I picked up some clothes for you. Hope they fit."

Camille extended her arms to pick up the nearest shirt and inspected the short sleeves critically. "Ehhh."

"What?"

"I," she began slowly, carefully setting the shirt back down, "I don't like short sleeves."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed. "It's, like, a hundred degrees outside and you wanna wear long sleeves? You want me to go out and look for a nice turtleneck?"

In a split second, Camille bound off the bed and toward the bathroom with the handful of new clothes in her arms. "It's fine. No big deal! Thanks."

The bathroom door slammed shut.

Finding a few moments to himself, Dean rushed to the table with a case file at ready. He spent an extra few hours at the local library after scouring Wal-Mart and Sears. Now, he attempted to soak up as much information as he could before she came out. _Okay_, he thought, _concentrate Dean. Three kids disappeared in that hotel ten years ago. Think! It's a decade gig, right? It could be a spirit? Ghost? Lamia?_

He rotated his phone against his palm, thinking how much easier it would be if he just called his dad. But, Dean checked the flip side, if he called for backup, his father would hitch a ride for another few hunts before parting ways. It had been such a pleasant few months without anyone holding him back, Dean promptly decided against it. The phone went into his pocket. All his concentration went back into the newspaper clippings once again, sitting in silence for near an hour.

"Mmm," he mused, "could just be a myth."

"Can we get something to eat? I'm starving." Camille rolled up her orange scrubs, wet hair swathed up in a towel. She was wearing jeans that were entirely too baggy for her and a shirt that was entirely too small. "I look like Courtney Love. Got it. Stop staring."

"Woah, woah, woah," Dean's hands shot up defensively, "we don't talk about _her_. What happened to your arm?"

"Nothing." She stammered shyly, hiding her left arm behind her back. "I just got some ink that I'm not proud of."

So, Dean let it go. He questioned his letting go abilities when she sat in shotgun and scratched at her forearm like she had been doing it her entire life. What the hell was under there that she was so ashamed of? Here's a better question: why did he care?

_I don't. _Dean thought to himself. _I don't care. Anyone would be curious. I blame Camille. She's just feeding my curiosity with her stupid face and her stupid tattoo. _

He tapped on the steering wheel with his thumbs in a poor attempt to parallel the music streaming through the speakers. It was a weak excuse to take his mind off her and concentrate wholly on the job that was just in the case file stuck under his seat.

Three kids. In four months.

Witnesses heard a woman singing before each kid disappeared.

Two boys. One girl.

Uneven time gap between each disappearance.

"That looks good!" Camille pointed across main street toward a barn-like building. Her strawberry blonde hair, which had been streaming out the open window, now settled into a puffed out mess around her head. "Totally worth checking out," she ran her hands through her hair and said.

Dean swung the car into the small parking lot and pulled the gear to park. It was an unimpressive shack. He'd just as well buy food out of an abandoned bus on the side of the highway.

"Hillbilly's Restaurant," he read out loud. "You sure?"

Camille would have answered if she was still in the car but she was halfway through the whitewashed doors, figuring all too soon that Dean would be griping. "Come on!" She called and motioned to him with cruder hand gestures than Dean had been used to seeing on a woman.

When he talked himself into going into the restaurant Dean Winchester was pleasantly surprised. The interior was wide and roomy, filled with little tables, and a bar cornered to one side. Camille was sitting by the windows that overlooked the front of the store, a softer smile on the hairpin curves of her lips. The sun felt warm on her face and Dean could tell that that meant freedom to her.

He ordered two beers with a swipe of his hand in the waiter's direction and sat across from her, following her gaze to the wide fields on the opposite side of the road. "It's a nice view."

He didn't execute the conversation with much conviction. It was as interesting as watching paint dry but she nodded anyway.

They were looking at the same spit of land but they saw such different things. While Dean just saw grass and jimmies of trees in the distance, Camille saw a giant, beautiful world. She saw the birds in the bluest, clearest sky and the little insects buzzing around the daisies. She saw the trees that seemed so small but knew that if she got close enough those same trees would be twenty times her height. A soulful sigh whistled between her lips.

Dean decided not to worry about it too much. Not like she was going anywhere. She had nowhere else to be but with him. Like he said, he had a fast car and she had a ticket to anywhere. The offer still stood.

The waiter brought out the beers and stood by the table waiting for an order.

"We - " Dean was about to ask Camille what she wanted but didn't bother as she was preoccupied at the window. "Two cheeseburgers, extra onions on one of them. Man's gotta have his onions." He muttered when the waiter disappeared into the kitchen.

She hadn't heard him. Or she had heard him and didn't care to throw in her two cents. Dean expected something on the lines of: french fries are an equivalent to onions in a cheeseburger. But that one didn't come.

"Want some french fries?" He asked when the food was set on the table, and was shaking the salt dispenser over his pallet of fries.

Camille turned her head slowly. "I don't like salt."

"You, like, some health nut?" His hand paused on the way to the ketchup bottle.

"Let me rephrase this so it's clearer to you, Dean," She was leaning on the table, looking him straight in the eyes. "I hate salt. I hate the way it smells, the way it feels, the way it looks, and especially the way it tastes. Capisce?"

Dean was wide-eyed and slightly terrified, but the moment the bottle in his hand made a farting noise as the ketchup splattered across his burger, Camille was smiling and picking at her own food. She seemed to be coming in and out of focus against the rays of sun, light bending around her profile.

"You say capisco."

"Uh," he shook off the strange sensory shit that sudden struck the wrong cord in his brain, "capisco."

He bit into the burger and it was like - Dean was out of metaphors at the moment, but it was like something _so _nice. He took another bite and from there he was just sailing. Drifting through the burger, bite to bite. Dean hadn't seen heaven, but he was almost sure that heaven was only adequate compared to the moment his teeth sank into that cheeseburger.

"Need an ambulance?" Camille was holding her burger halfway up to her mouth and staring over it at him. "You seem to be enjoying this too much."

Dean took his time with the last bite, shaking his head in a refusal to talk just yet. It wouldn't be a nice break. He wanted to take his time and savour the last of that burger for all it was worth.

"Here." She set her untouched plate in front of him, burger and fries.

"You said you were starving."

"I wasn't lying. It's just that it's more fun watching you eat that burger than eating it myself."

Dean's smirk was obscured by a handful of fries. "Stop flirting, Hemingway. It looks better on me."

Rolling her eyes, Camille mockingly scoffed. Her hands went up to pull at the loose strands of her hair, twisting the tendrils into a braid.

"Like this. I'll show you." Dean swallowed and said to her, "Hey, Camille, sweetheart, what else can you do with your hands?"

"Strangle you."

"Kinky. Show me one night."

"What part of sociopath and pyromaniac passed your radar?" She had her eyes narrowed and her head cocked like he was the most interesting specimen in the room. "Dean, I hope you realize that I'm the type of girl that dreams about walking over the mangled bodies of my enemies in red high heels and a little black dress. The whole jailbird phase sorta delayed the process so I just haven't gotten to it yet. But I can easily make you my first victim. Is that what you _really_ want?"

Dean shook his head stupidly.

"Good," she said in little less than a whisper, sitting up straight. "that _would _be regrettable. I would hate to maim a pretty face like yours. So, keep that in mind the next time you call me sweetheart."

Dean made a point not to argue. He polished off his plate, drank his beer and Camille's, paid the bill, and held the door open for Camille. She hadn't eaten a thing. He decided that he would be worried this time.

"Camille?" He asked cautiously once he sat behind the wheel.

"Yes?"

"You didn't eat."

"And?"

"You've been running from the law for I don't know how many miles, slept for nearly fourteen hours, and not in the least bit hungry. That's a bit strange, don't you think?"

Camille nodded, and then broke into an incredibly weird, kind of sheepish grin. On anybody else it would be terrible. On Camille it was kind of gorgeous. A welcome change from the psychotic, stomach-aching grins that constantly knocked Dean's train right off the tracks. "I just got so caught up with the open fields. Eating didn't seem as - " She stopped mid sentence, working off her smile. "as worthwhile."

"Well," Dean cranked the gear to drive and took his foot off the break, "we're going back to the haunted hotel, okay? If your freedom juice wears off and you finally realize that you need to food to survive, eat."

Only once she agreed did the Impala glided forward from Hillbilly's and down the road, past the field that Camille just never could take her eyes off of until it slowly sunk into a wall of trees beside an interstate.

Dean had his eyes on the yellow lines, easing his foot on and off the brake pedal.

Four months.

Three kids.

Two boys.

One girl.

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**Thank you for reading! I do apologize that it's going a bit slowly. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Big thank you to Jenmm31 for helping me out with this chapter! Couldn't have done it without her and her wonderful ideas :)**

**Unfortunately, I'm leaving to college this Friday so I won't be able to write the next chapter to this story until maybe December. I have a month off for Christmas break so I'll be sure to continue this story then :) **

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

"Ooo," Camille mocked and waved her hands. "Spooky."

Dean squinted at the old hotel, searching the windows with one sweeping glance. It was pleasantly calm. Bees hummed from flower bud to flower bud across the colorful bed quilted around the building. A little stream babbled on one side, and the sunlight landed on that old hotel like candlelight.

Camille was staring lovingly at the homely structure, deep in thought. "Hotsauce musta meant another hotel 'cause this place looks like Santorini."

Dean's eyebrows furrowed and his mouth formed an 'o' in confusion. "Who said what looked like _what_?"

She twisted her mouth to one side and took the plastic shopping bag filled with her few clothes while Dean grabbed his own duffle from the backseat.

"Did you say _Hotsauce_ told you about this place?"

She nodded.

"Who is Hotsauce?"

"She," Camille's sentence broke for a moment while she cupped a wilted rose in the flat of her palm, "was my pregnant bunk mate. Well," she couldn't suppress the nagging grin that pulled at her mouth, "she was my bunk mate before Panda broke her nose." Her grin grew even wider when Dean's confusion turned into blatant disbelief. "Panda's mom gave birth to her in prison. She had had a white cellmate. Black and white," she pushed the shopping bag back to her wrists to have room enough to entwine her fingers, rocking back and forth on her heels slightly, "panda."

"I - I got it." Dean brushed past her and walked toward the veranda, piloting himself up the stairs.

Camille nearly skipped after him. "Guess what my nickname was."

"Gabby?"

"No," Camille recoiled in confusion. "Why the hell would it be Gabby?"

"Because you never shut up."

Shaking her head to dismiss his comment, she clarified further with her answer. "They called me Sinatra. _Dude_, I do a mean _Fly Me to the Moon_."

"You sing?"

She nodded, beaming over with pride. It was like her singing was the one thing that made her human. It set her apart from the forest of mistakes that she made. Without another word, she skipped up the wooden steps to the porch, glancing back to make sure he was following. "Hurry up. I wanna hit the continental buffet."

Dean blanched and threw his arm out back to the road where they had just drove up. "We were literally just at a burger joint."

"Well," she raised one shoulder, saying slowly, "I want the continental food. It makes me feel fancy."

He followed close behind her as she entered the hotel, watching her almost skip into the lunch room. Prison cafeteria's were far from good and it was just a little sad to see that crappy European knock-off food was a big step up for her.

"Gabby," Dean called out and stopped at the main desk, "I'm gonna check in. Save me a seat in there."

Pulling out his wallet, Dean fished out a credit card he hadn't used in a while, memorizing the name. _Joseph Carpenter. _A devilish smirk splayed across his face when he read the name over and over again. He had really outdone himself this time.

"Tell me something, uh, _Jules_," Dead read off the receptionists name-tag, noticing her pregnant belly, "how Amityville is this place?"

She shrugged. "People report hearing a child singing in the middle of the night. They'd say that they could hear little footsteps up and down the hallway, going down to the room at the far end of the hall upstairs. The singing would always stop as soon as it got to that room and it'd start again when footsteps start back down the hall again. It's pretty cooky stuff but it's only second-hand accounts. Some people even said that their children would have imaginary friends while they stayed here."

"And what do those kids say?" Dean lowered his voice and continued, bringing the conversation in closer.

"Well," the receptionist thought, "it's really strange because nine months later those same three kids just disappeared. This happened like ten years ago, all of them dying in a span of four months."

"Do people still hear the woman singing? Or the kids?"

"No. But actually, a couple of months ago we had a few - " she faltered and only went on when Dean insisted. "A couple of months ago I was working the graveyard shift down here. It was like three in the morning and I would've gone home but I need the money, you know? I'm sitting here and I hear this beautiful music. It was like a clarinet or a flute. And I sorta just thought it was just some asshole playing his instrument in the middle of the night but the music just seemed to move through the hotel. I tried to find it. Running up and down the building like a madwoman but I got to that room at the end of the hall upstairs and the music just stopped. It was so creepy."

Dean leaned against the counter on one arm. "How long was a couple of months ago?"

"Seven, eight months. Why?"

He shook his head dismissively. "Any chance I could get that spooky room for the next few nights?"

"Your choice, Mr. Carpenter," she put him into the system and slid the key across the counter. "Have a nice stay."

"You hear anything else going on you let me know, you hear?"

She smiled and nodded, watching with a hand on her belly as he meandered through the lobby and into the dining hall.

Dean made a quick stop at the buffet and had his plate filled high with food when he sat across from Camille. She was leaning over a crosswords puzzle in the local newspaper and hadn't even touched her food.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Dean asked.

She shook her head no, too preoccupied with racking her head for the answers to the clues. But after a moment of silence and inaction, Camille was ravaging the three plates she had neatly set out in front of her.

An hour later a toothpick dangled from between her lips as she continued to mutter over the crossword puzzle. She had pushed her empty plates to the side and threw her head back in frustration.

"I hate these things!"

"Whoa," Dean put on hand up to stop her from overexerting herself, "I just watched you down three plates of food piled high with steak, mushrooms, zucchini, rice, chicken, and fish. And honey, that was just the appetizer."

Camille passive-aggressively chewed a cube of ham that she had speared from his plate. "You callin' me fat?"

Dean's mouth flopped open in preparation for his answer but realized that his affirmative wouldn't faze her either way. She folded back over the newspaper, spitting out the toothpick to chew on the end of her pen instead.

"What is an 'Actress Thurman'?"

"Uma," Dean replied.

"Uma," she repeated slowly, as if she was memorizing that piece of information, and writing it in. "1982 hit for the Flock of Seagulls? Oh. 'I Ran.' Hotcha!"

Dean took the newspaper from her and read the clues over. "One-Down. Aidan is the 'Actor Quinn' from _Legends of the Fall_. Forty-six-Down. Sumac is a reddish-purple spice. Fifteen-Across. Petruchio tamed the shrew."

"Show off," Camille snatched the paper from his fingers and wrote the answers in rapidly. "They don't teach that stuff in jail."

"Shakespeare's overrated anyway," Dean shrugged in a far-fetched attempt to alleviate whatever inferiority complex he assumed she had.

Camille continued to whine and fret to herself over the crossword puzzle until Dean had finished eating. She pulled at her hair and dug her nails into her scalp, wondering how the hell she didn't know who the wife of Angel Clare was. _Tess of the d'Urbervilles: A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented _wouldn't come close to all those critically-self-acclaimed books filling up the prison book shelves.

"Let's go," Dean pulled her rather unwillingly away from the crossword. "Let's go check out the haunted room. I got it just for you, come on."

"I can't leave this puzzle half complete, Dean." The look on her face clearly conveyed how radical it would be to leave it unfinished. She took it with her and followed him up the stairs and down the hallway to the mysterious room.

Camille's jaw dropped in mortification. The sheets over the king-sized bed had ugly tears down and hung in ribbons on the ground. The window sill had various nail marks running along the wood and a chilling breeze blew through the open window.

"It's just like my cell," her words cracked and caught in her throat.

Dean took the plastic bag filled with her meager belongings from her tight fingertips and set it on the floor beside his duffle. He quickly shut the window and stripped the bed sheets off the bed, feeling cold spots bubble down his leg and slither underneath the mattress as he did so.

"I don't want to stay here, Dean. Please." Camille was pressed flush against the door, shrinking in the sight of the small room. "I know I wanted to see the ghosts but, god, at what cost?"

The vulnerability in her face was clear like a giant neon light. Her eyebrows were knit together and she curled herself into a ball at the feeling of the room getting smaller and smaller on top of her. Her breath hitched in her throat and her eyes fell to the floor, catching sight of two bright red orbs glowing from underneath the bed. She stifled a scream by clapping her hand over her mouth with one hand and pointing underneath the bed with her other hand. Dean pulled out his gun from the small of his back and nearly flipped the mattress out of the frame to catch a glimpse of whatever Camille had seen.

There was nothing.

Dean's hands worked fast to rummage through his duffle to uncap the jerrycan filled with salt. He made a thick line around the bed and along the window sills while Camille watched with eyes as wide as saucers, the crumpled up crosswords puzzle in her clenched hand.

"Salt?! Are you insane? What the hell was that?" Her voice was wavered and broken in more than one spot, kicking herself half into the closet to get far enough from the salt lines. "What is wrong with you?!"

"What did you see?" He continued to draw lines of salt across every crack and crevice.

Camille tripped over her words. "Eyes. Two - two glowing red eyes and this pale hand coming out of the woodwork. It was a really small hand, like, a baby's though."

"Did it say anything?"

"It was a baby!" She screamed. "I don't know anything about infant care but I sure as hell know that babies shouldn't be saying anything! Or crawling under people's beds!"

Dean knelt beside her and slowly extended his hand to place on her shoulder. "Did you hear anything at all? Please, Cam, it's important."

Camille's eyes danced across the room, searching for the glowing red eyes but seeing the contents inside of Dean's circle instead. Sawed offs, lighter fluid, lighters and match sticks...her gaze buffered on the matches. She swallowed hard. She could set that haunted bed on fire if she wanted. All the ingredients for another jail sentence was at the reach of her hand.

Dean shook her eyes back on him. "Did you hear anything or not?"

She shook her head no. All she could think of was the sparks flying as she dragged the match over the matchbox. All she could think of was that bitter smell that fumed up into her nose and the crisp brown that'd be smeared across the bed sheets as it went up in flame.

"What do we do? It looked really real, man."

"Relax," Dean assured her, "I'll get us the room next door and you can sleep it off."

"No, no, no, no," she grabbed his collar and kept him close, "I'm going nowhere near that salt. I told you how much I hated it! Who the hell are you?!"

He pried her fingers off from his collar, looking her dead in the eyes and seriously saying, "My name is Dean Winchester. I hunt ghosts. And that thing you saw under the bed...I think it's a spirit haunting this place."

"You're crazy…"

There was a long pause before he replied. "I know."

But slowly. So slowly that Dean didn't know it was there until it was already slapped across her face, Camille stared at him. The same scary concentration he had seen her doing the night he met her. She rolled her sleeve up to her elbow, showing him the tattoo of his name on her forearm.

"It showed up on my sixteenth birthday. That's when I started going to the crapper for setting shit on fire. I dunno," she sighed and rolled her sleeve back down to her wrist, "uhm, I think after I got it I started having aspects of your life meld into mine. Like, how you were burning that body that one night. Did you get a tattoo too? Of my name?"

Her eyes fell to his arm. Dean pushed his sleeves up to show his arm, clean of any names, not saying a word.

Camille rubbed her eyebrow nervously. "That's - That's really weird."

"Not for nothing," he started getting up and migrating toward the door, "but I'm just gonna step out...grab something from the car. I'll be back."

She gave him an incredulous look that sharply turned into a dirty scowl. The pit of her stomach tightened at the thought of her alone and surrounded for all this salt and an evil ghost just underneath the bed. Camille was about to ask to come along but Dean was already halfway down to the hall to the stairs to the main floor. She brought her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around her legs, curling into a ball.

"I'll just wait here then."

Dean nearly tripped down the stairs, catching himself against the banister just in time to scrub his hand across his face, organizing thoughts and streamlining all of it through his mind. It wasn't too late to call John. Hell, Dean had been contemplating calling his father for a long time and, though now seemed liked the best time to get some back up if in case Camille hit the fan, Dean shook his head of it and patted his pocket to make sure his phone was still there.

Pushing out the main door to the squeaky hotel, Dean stepped onto the porch and took a moment to breath in the fresh air. From where he stood he could see the Impala at the other end of the parking lot and just the long trek made his head-ache even more. Dean went down the whitewashed steps and walked down the cobble-stoned walkway, absent-mindedly throwing his gaze to three children playing with the mud by the banks of the stream.

The oldest, a girl around six years old, sat knee-deep in the muck, patting the mud into cakes while her baby brothers watched her with wide eyes, enthralled. A smile spread across Dean's face, momentarily stopping the pounding in his temples, as he stopped to watch them. Of course, Dean never had the luxury of playing in the mud because he was always too busy keeping an eye on Sam, but it was nice to see that other children had different childhood experiences.

Dean moved on from the muddy sight and continued on toward the Impala, propping the trunk open with one arm over his head while absently rummaging through the content. He had made up an excuse to leave Camille for a few minutes. He liked to think that he was keeping his mind on the job wholly but he also liked to think that there was no way like a snowball's chance in hell that it was a coincidence that Camille had been at the right place at the right time.

Digging up John Winchester's journal, Dean closed the trunk and headed back toward the building. The three kids weren't at the stream anymore and the dirt on the banks seemed to be untouched previously. Dean caught sight of an older woman rocking back and forth in her rocking chair at one corner of the wrap-around porch.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he cautiously approached her, "would you have happened to see three little kids playing in the dirt down but that stream there? By the tree?"

The elderly women gave him a critical once-over, narrowed her eyes suspiciously, and sneered, "what did you say?"

"Uhhm," Dean proceeded with caution, "kids. Did you see a little girl and her two brothers playing in the mud down there? I saw them a few minutes ago and they disappeared. Just wanted to make sure they're safe. That stream is pretty deep."

"You see them too?"

"Excuse me?"

The woman cast a glance toward the stream. "I see them all the time too. Lily would always be playing in the mud and her brother's would always follow her around, watching everything she does and copying her. You have no idea what a miracle they were to me. I was in my mid-forties when I had Lily. The twins came four years later. They were the light of my life."

"What happened?"

She laughed softly to herself. "I'll tell you what didn't happen, young man. I couldn't get pregnant."

_Ugh, T.M.I,_ Dean thought to himself.

"I always wanted three children," she continued. "Never could have any though."

"But you did."

"I did. And they were the way I spent the best ten years of my life."

"I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am."

She just brushed his condolences into the wind. "It was my own stupid fault. Shouldn't have made a deal with a nasty little Rumpelstiltskin."

"I'm sorry, what?" His eyebrows arched in disbelief.

"Well, it wasn't Rumpelstiltskin, of course. That's only a story. No, he said he was Kokopelli or some nonsense." She scoffed at how crazy she must have sounded but Dean only motioned her to continue. "He asked me if I wanted to have children and I said yes. I said I wanted children more than anything in the world. He was playing his little flute and told me that I should take a pregnancy test in a week. I thought it was the stupidest thing in the world but I checked anyway."

"And it was positive?"

She nodded, rubbing rising tears across her face to stay composed. "I had Lily. He came to me again four years later and said he could give me twins. And I figured, 'hey, the first time went well. Why not?' But that son of a bitch only gave me a few more years then took them away."

Tears were free-falling from her eyes, and she had a hand pressed against her heaving chest, trying to formulate words through her quivering lips. She shook her head, eyes tightly shut.

From behind them, the netted storm door screeched open and Camille stepped on the porch. She looked between Dean and the crying woman before lowering her eyes, folding her hands in front of her. She didn't know what to do and thought about just going back inside but she had already opened her mouth to talk so the woman wouldn't buy that she was just a stranger. Camille fought inwardly with herself, shut her mouth, and went back inside to wait for Dean in the lobby.

"You mentioned something about a kokopelli," Dean gently enticed, taking her hand in his.

"That was his name. Kokopelli." She took a moment to sniff and to steady her voice. "It sounds Italian."

"And he promised you children? With his…" Dean caught his words, "flute?"

She nodded.

"And your name, ma'am?"

"Angela Hawkins."

"Well, Ms. Hawkins, I'm working with the FBI on the disappearance of your children. I'm going to find my...partner. I'm sure we will see you around to ask some routine questions later." Dean stood and gravitated into the lobby, pulling Camille away from her bee line toward the dining hall. "I need your help."

"I'm hungry," she gently opposed, eyeing the free food lined up and warming on the counters. "There's food in there. I was - I was going to go get some food."

"We are going to the library and I need you to help me do research on an Italian man called Kokopelli."

Camille stared down at him, coiling back in confusion. "You do know what a Kokopelli is, right? It's definitely not Italian."

"Wait, what is it then?"

"It's the Native American god of fertility. He's like the Loki of the Native American Hopi community."

"How the _hell_ do you know this?!" Dean pulled her out into the porch and toward the Impala.

She pointed at her tattoo. "I looked up weird things. It was a phase. That lasted like seven years. It's not my fault. If anything, it's your fault."

"My fault? How the hell is it my fault?"

Pulling out of his grip and opening her own door, Camille sneered, "you're welcome for the information that you would've been too ignorant to figure out yourself."

"I would've figured it out just fine!"

"Dean, you would've gone on Google Images looking for an Italian man named Kokopelli."

He threw up his arms in defeat, getting into the driver's seat without another word. He fumbled with the key and waited until she was sitting beside him to start the engine. "Hurry up and get in."

She groaned in opposition but consented, slamming the door shut. "I didn't ask for this, you know. I didn't want my life to turn to shit because of a stupid name belonging to a stupid asshole. You ruined my life, Dean! I didn't even have to meet you for you to fuck up a life that I had planned out perfectly."

He looked at her calmly. "You're blaming me for that tattoo? You're blaming me for you being a pyromaniac? You're blaming me for you hating salt?"

"I don't even know you, Dean!" She sobbed. "I didn't even know you but I missed you since I was sixteen years old staring out of a prison window. I did not ask for this. I wanted to be a journalist. I wanted to go to Scranton, Pennsylvania and I wanted to be a professional journalist. What did you want to be? Huh?"

Dean scoffed. "Not a professional monster hunter, that's for sure. I wanted to be a fireman. Wanna know why? Because I would never have to look up at the ceiling in the middle of the night and see another person I love burning to death. So don't you dare talk to me like you're the only person who's trying to dig himself out of the early grave."

A sheet of tension, thick enough to slice with a machete, fell over them until Camille changed the subject. "Did you, uh, figure out who that creepy little kid under the bed was?"

"Angela Hawkins' kids," was Dean's reply. "Their spirits are bound to that hotel because of the Kokopelli dude." Pause. "You wouldn't happen to know how to kill him would you?"

She buckled herself in and shrugged. "No idea. But I'll figure it out. Just get this hunk of junk moving."

"Hunk of junk?!"


End file.
